


That Matter

by isthatacatsherlock



Category: Ed Sheeren (Musician)
Genre: Airplanes, F/M, Minor Character Death, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:03:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isthatacatsherlock/pseuds/isthatacatsherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine setting: Your mom died, and you just got home from the funeral. You’re dating long distance. He’s on tour. He skypes you when you get home and you can tell he’s concerned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Matter

He looks concerned for you, clicking his pen as he looks over at you on Skype while you trail off in your speech. You were talking about this Lolita shop you want to try and unicorns or something. He’s correctly deducing that you toked with your brother right before the funeral because you both agreed it was too intense to deal with. He’s probably thinking of the Things To Tell You Not To Do, like take more than one vicodin tonight, or drink any wine if you do that, because he Will Call To Make Sure and he’s not hesitant to call the emergency room.

Interestingly, he doesn’t know you’re in your dad’s house, not yours, and so…there are guns. This isn’t Britain. You’re not suicidal, but if he’s worried about the bottle of wine, he needs to rethink things.

He clears his throat and you refocus. “What can I do?” he asks instead. You shrug. “Anything?”

You meet his eyes and realize, looking at him, that he’s being serious and literal. If you wanted, he’d buy you a chanel bag or a horse or a diamond ring if it’d make you feel better. His credit card number and security code.

“I want to be with you.”

A second of silence follows and then you realize how that sounds. “S….”  
he begins a word.

“No! I mean…I’m sorry. I’m not one of those clingy girlfriends. I sound like one.”

“You don’t sound like one,” he says fiercely, and you notice he’s tapping at his keys.

“Ed…what are you doing?”

“When can you leave?”

“Um…right…now? You’re not seriously buying a ticket?”

 

“Yeah. Your flight is in two hours.”

And so it is. And you turn on British radio comedy about airplanes during the flight while you wait to be in the only arms you want to be with the cotton hoodie and the perfect cologne you can’t name and the soft hands on your back. And, in the plane, you close your eyes.

Tears fight to come as you remember things. Not your mom, necessarily, but other things. Your dad walking the dog by the park on the snowy day when you came home from school and how content you were and how she wasn’t there and maybe that was why.

Your dogs. From new-puppy-dom to the final hug with the wheezy lab where you think now that you should’ve really cried even though you couldn’t bring yourself to look up at the pastor today and you let your brother carry the urn because you’re still having trouble picturing …that whole concept. And you don’t want to, or have to, because you’ll be with ed soon.

Or the time she told you looked pretty with hushed breath and it was hard for her, and hard for you, and you didn’t look pretty that night at that ballet recital. You kind of wish you could apologize for not measuring up, and it’s this thought that makes you come undone, so you just..hold on by a thread until the plane lands, and it does, and customs goes fast and then…he’s there.

He’s standing there in baggage claim with his perfect hoodie and you drop your back pack to wrap your arms around him. Tears come, but you’re not sobbing, and he’s rubbing your back. You’re saying you’re sorry, but you’re not talking to him.

And he understands.


End file.
